Time to go
by Jeannie-Mckay
Summary: Pain was searing in his chest. Every breath was becoming more difficult; air simply wasn't making its way to his lungs. WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH!


Title: Time to go.

Rating: T

Summary: Pain was searing in his chest. Every breath was becoming more difficult; air simply wasn't making its way to his lungs. WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the BBC's adaptation of 'Sherlock', no matter how many times I might write to Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat :P

Author's Note: This came about from a prompt here: .?thread=6683047 Mycroft really needs some angst, and I've always wanted there to be more brotherly moments. I'm not sure I've got the voices quite right, as this is my first venture into 'Sherlock' I'm not completely comfortable with them yet. So I really hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think.

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Pain was searing in his chest. Every breath was becoming more difficult; air simply wasn't making its way to his lungs. He could feel his knees giving way; could feel the hard, stone floor connecting with his side as he fell but he didn't care. The all consuming pain was familiar but not welcome. He shouldn't have gotten involved, he knew this now. He should have left Sherlock to his own devices…but how could he do that? How could he truly let that time bomb wander around London without some form of safety net?

Blood was blossoming from the wound in his stomach, seeping out and staining his suit. A small part of his mind inwardly cursed his bodily fluids for ruining the expensive shirt and waistcoat. Even in his pain-dulled state he could see the humour in this, he felt a laugh bubble inside him and it ripped from his throat echoing loudly off the stone walls. The sound that reached his ears didn't sound human anymore, it sounded…wrong.

It wasn't long before violent, hacking coughs began to riddle his body, blood was gurgling from his throat now, spilling up and out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. He was too weak to wipe it away, too weak to do anything other than lie there. The sound of more gunfire brought him somewhat back to the present, his eyes flickered open (although he had no memory of closing them) and he saw two figures fighting.

A voice in his head told him he should watch them, it would keep him awake and if he hoped to survive this then he needed to remain conscious but the pain was making everything ten times more difficult than it usually was. If he could just go to sleep, just a doze. His eyelids fluttered shut once more, the sounds around him grew fainter; he could feel everything draining away. It was strange, he thought, how he didn't feel scared. Irritated that a perfectly good suit had been ruined, annoyed at the fact that he was to die on a cold, hard factory floor but not scared that this was to be the end of him.

The ghost of a wry smile appeared on his lips; maybe he'd been expecting this. After all, when one was associated with Sherlock Holmes one often found themselves in desperate and difficult circumstances. He'd been in them far too often for his liking and had to get the idiotic child out of those situations too often to count. It was quite probable that his brain had prepared itself for such a situation and, therefore, was ready to let go of his physical body.

God it was getting very difficult to stay awake. He couldn't feel the floor anymore, even the pain was lessening. If this was death then it wasn't too horrific so far. The sounds of the fight seemed miles away, he had no idea what the outcome would be and nor did he care. He had done his best for Sherlock and, whilst he hoped the ending would be favourable he knew he could do nothing more now. He was done.

With that realisation, that feeling of completion he began to allow himself to drift away. He felt his tethers on reality slowly giving up, the barriers he'd spent so many years carefully erecting were crumbling and the control he'd crafted was ebbing away. He was so close, it wouldn't be long now.

"Mycroft!" The voice sounded as if it was coming through a long tunnel, he wanted to ignore it but something was telling him he had to try and wake up, just for a little while. He tried to open his eyes but they would not obey his command.

"Mycroft, now is not the time for a nap." If he could have laughed at that he would have, if he had not been bleeding to death on the floor he would have given his brother that amused raised eyebrow and they would have enjoyed the only displays of affection they felt able to give one another. How he had wished things would change between them. He had wanted them to grow old, finally able to put their pride behind them and apologise for the mistakes they'd made in the past. He wanted to apologise for those times he'd been unable to protect his baby brother, for all those times the fist had left a bruise on Sherlock's skin rather than his. For every time their father's bottle had hit the youngest rather than the eldest boy. He'd tried to take every beating, every drunken fight, every insult but he hadn't been able to be there around the clock. He'd failed Sherlock…and now he was failing him in death; unable to tell him just how much he cared in these last few moments before his life left him forever.

"Brother, please. Wake up." He heard the voice crack slightly, not enough so that anyone else could hear but enough to make Mycroft's heart want to break in two. With a great effort he managed to open his eyes, gazing blearily up at his younger brother. It was then that he realised he was being cradled in Sherlock's arms, his face mere inches from the other man's.

"Sh'rlock?" It was an inane question but one he could not stop from passing his lips, he reached a hand weakly up towards the face swimming in and out of focus. His fingers brushed softly against that pale cheek and a tired smile crossed his lips.

"Of course it is, who else do you think would be in this position with you?" There it was, the biting remark to cover up the torrent of emotion he knew were whirling inside his brother's mind. He had always found it hurtful when he heard others saying Sherlock was an automaton; his brother had feelings but he kept them locked away for they served no earthly purpose for him. In fact, it had not been until this John Watson had entered his life that he'd ever allowed them to truly surface. Yes, that doctor had done well.

"You always h-had a knack for…comforting the d-dying." His breathing was laboured, every word cost him a great amount of energy but he couldn't leave yet. He blinked slowly, trying to gather his mind together. It was not often he found himself unable to think straight, normally his thoughts were categorized wonderfully as to their importance, he could sort through them at his leisure but now he had too many memories, too many ideas, too many thoughts swirling around inside his head.

"And you always were melodramatic. Once John gets here you'll be fine, I've had far worse injuries than you and yet I'm still here." Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle. Oh yes, he'd seen Sherlock at his worst, had sat by his hospital bed for three days straight waiting for him to wake up. When his brother had finally saw fit to open his eyes the government had nearly been in turmoil, one Prime Minister resigning, he was only there just in time to prevent a catastrophe. Then Sherlock had managed to get himself blown up, resulting in Mycroft once more being glued to a chair and unable to stop the latest University tuition fee plans from going ahead. His brother was the reason so many students were demonstrating in this city, but none of them knew it. They all blamed the Prime Minister (and, of course, his deputy) when, in fact, they should be sending hate mail to a certain consulting detective's address.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the fire in his chest and met his brother's grey eyes.

"M'sorry." His words were slurring now, the pain making it more and more difficult to speak properly. He saw the man holding him shift, his head turning to look towards the door, no doubt seeing if help had arrived. "I wanted you to -"

"Don't." Grey eyes turned back to meet his own, there was pain behind that stare, carefully concealed behind giant walls. He smiled once again, nodding softly knowing that he wouldn't be allowed to say what he most wanted to say. He was forgiven, he could already tell by the way Sherlock clutched him a little closer to his body.

"T-try to stay out of trouble." As if that would ever be possible. His brother attracted trouble wherever he went, hence the surveillance team. "Or I'll…upgrade your…surveillance." Sherlock let out a small laugh, a mere shadow of the one Mycroft had loved to hear in their youth. How that little boy had changed.

"Am I not already watched with the same intensity as most suspected terrorists?"

"With some'f your experiments you could be…terrorist." His eyes closed again and he felt hands shake him, trying to wake him up again.

"That's only because you don't understand them."

"Head…fridge?" He couldn't finish the entire sentence, he simply smiled softly, his eyes still shut. Outside he could hear noises, more people were coming. How lovely.

"I suppose you saw that on John's blog. It was a perfectly viable experiment…John, in here!" Mycroft couldn't stand it anymore, he was so tired…too tired.

"Goodbye." The words were drowned out by loud voices, thundering footfalls as people burst into the room. He let the darkness claim him, he felt the ties that bound him to reality fray and soon he was floating in painless, warm, wonderful blackness.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock shook his brother once more, he could feel his mental walls crumbling down as he stared at Mycroft's slack features. This shouldn't be happening.

Strong hands were pulling him off, pulling him away and he fought against them at first. He couldn't leave his brother there, not for all these people to see, he needed to get him somewhere safe, a hospital. They could save him! Bring him back.

A voice was murmuring his name, trying to soothe him but in that moment all he wanted was to hear Mycroft sing that lullaby he always used to when Sherlock was scared of the thunder. He wanted to see his brother smile as he was presented with yet another idea for an experiment the four-year-old Sherlock wanted him to help conduct. He wanted his brother back.

For one, small moment he felt like a small child. He was no longer Sherlock Holmes the world's only consulting detective; he was Sherlock Holmes, six-year-old boy, curled up in his brother's bed trying to ignore the screams and yells coming from downstairs, whilst Mycroft told him wonderful stories about princes and witches. Sherlock would always try and guess the ending, demanding that dialogue be changed to better fit the characters his brother had described.

"Sherlock?" He looked into those warm, brown eyes and felt calm wash over him instantly. John. His walls came back up as quickly as they had been torn down.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" His friend sounded doubtful, as though he thought Sherlock would throw himself prostrate on the ground and beg for his brother's life back.

"I'm quite sure. If you would be so kind as to tell Lestrade that his killer is lying, unconscious in the next room." He knew he was being cold and distant but he had no idea how to deal with all these emotions, all these memories now circulating in his brain. Was this grief? It couldn't be…he'd never felt it before and he hadn't even liked Mycroft, why should he grieve for his passing? Feelings were too confusing, give him logic or a puzzle and he could deal with it but emotions had always been his downfall. Not a weakness, necessarily, just something that had never helped him in his daily life.

What worried him was the feeling of fierce anger he had felt when he'd seen the gunman point that revolver at his brother. His mind had gone blank, for the only time in his life he had been unable to think and had acted purely on instinct. He had throw himself at the attacker, had heard the gunshot ring out but ignored it. He had, at first, been intent on getting the gun away from this madman but then he'd noticed his brother falling to the ground. As clichéd as it sounded he had seen red, he had beaten the man beneath him into unconsciousness.

At some point during his inner monologue John had walked away, Sherlock turned and saw paramedics placing a blanket over his brother, obscuring his face. He supposed that would have to suffice until the body bag was brought in. As he gazed at the still form of Mycroft Holmes he couldn't help but notice that his brother had obviously been ignoring his diet, he had gained weight since they last spoke. No doubt it was that stash of sweets he kept in the top drawer of his desk.

Suddenly John was by his side again, a hand on his shoulder and concern evident in his whole demeanour. Why did he keep on looking at him like that? What was he supposed to do?

"John please stop your concern."

"Your brother just -"

"It's a perfectly normal occurrence."

"Not in these circum-"

"I have no desire to fall down, beat my fists on the floor and pray to any particular god to bring him back. You need not worry that when we return to Baker Street I will pull out your gun and shoot myself." The look his flatmate sent him told him that he hadn't actually been thinking along those particular lines; no doubt when they returned home the revolver would be moved to a more secure location.

"We should go." John's voice was quiet, as though he had no idea what else to say. Sherlock was quite ready to leave, to be gone from this hell hole but something stopped him from turning. His gaze returned to the covered body lying not far from him. He took a step towards his brother, with no idea of what was drawing him to the body or why he was doing this.

He knelt down, lifting the blanket from the cold, pale face and stared at the man he'd hated to call his brother for so long. He did not feel the need to cry, did not feel anything breaking within him…not anymore. However, he bent forwards and placed a gentle kiss on the cold forehead. The only sign, from now on, that he had ever cared for his brother.

A hand was once more on his shoulder and he was being led from the crime scene; he would have to make arrangements…someone would have to ring Mummy.

"Wait until tomorrow, Sherlock." John's voice startled him from his thoughts; he looked at his friend and shot him a rare smile, his powers of deduction really were coming along splendidly.

"Indeed. Tomorrow."


End file.
